Darcy felt his throat tighten with emotion. He looked over Anne’s head at Elizabeth, who was watching them both. The three of them sat tangled together at the nursery table, a family in the making.
Anne chattered on, already planning for the wedding (“Muffin must have a new ribbon”), for the honeymoon (“Can we take him to the pond?”), and for all the stories Elizabeth would now read as a mother instead of a governess. Every few sentences she would hug one of them again, or both, her small body vibrating with uncontainable joy.
Darcy held them close, one arm around his daughter and the other hand still laced with Elizabeth’s. The future stretched before him not as duty or careful arrangement, but as something warm and bright and full of laughter.
This was his family.
Twenty-Four
Elizabeth stood alone before the long cheval glass in her chamber at Pemberley, the soft light of late August 1818 spilling through the tall sash windows and bathing the ivory silk of her wedding gown in a warm, golden glow. It was the morning of the wedding, exactly two weeks since the night in Mr Darcy’s study when she had saidyes, and the world had quietly, irrevocably rearranged itself around that single word.
The gown had arrived from Lambton only yesterday, its final alterations completed in a flurry once her family had descended upon the house. The cut was simple yet elegant: modest enough for a marriage at her age, yet beautiful enough that she felt, for the first time in seven long years, like a bride rather than a survivor. The silk skimmed her figure gently, the neckline framed by delicate lace. She ran her hands down the skirts, smoothing a non-existent wrinkle, and allowed herself one quiet moment of wonder.
The last two weeks had passed in a blur of letters, plans, and joy—Mr Darcy sending word to London the very next morning, requesting her family’s immediate presence atPemberley, and the household responding with a speed that spoke of long-held affection and relief.
A sudden burst of energy at the door shattered the stillness.
“Lizzy! My own Lizzy! Let me see you properly this instant!”
Mrs Bennet swept into the room like a whirlwind, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright with unrestrained excitement Elizabeth had not witnessed in her mother since the distant days of Meryton assemblies. She carried a small bouquet of late-summer roses she had gathered herself from the garden, their stems still damp with dew and tied with a simple ribbon.
“Oh, my dear girl,” she breathed, stopping short in the centre of the room. Her hands flew to her mouth, then dropped as she circled Elizabeth slowly, taking in every line of the gown. “You look... you look like a lady again. Like my Lizzy, but more. The ivory is perfect. It brings out the roses in your cheeks. And the lace... oh, the seamstress in Lambton has outdone herself.”
Elizabeth smiled, the expression soft and genuine. “I feel like one, Mamma. Truly.”
Mrs Bennet took Elizabeth’s hands, turning her gently so the light could catch every detail. “The fit is exquisite. Not too tight, not too loose. You will outshine everyone at Kympton today, mark my words. And to think... my daughter, mistress of Pemberley. I can scarcely believe it, and yet here you stand.”
Before Elizabeth could reply, the door opened again, quietly this time. Anne entered hand-in-hand with Alice, thelittle girl still in her nightgown, her hair loose and tousled from sleep, and Muffin clutched protectively to her chest. Mrs Bennet turned at once, her face softening into an affection so natural and unforced that Elizabeth felt her throat tighten with emotion.
“Come here, my darling,” Mrs Bennet said, crouching with grace and opening her arms wide. “Let your grandmamma see you properly.”
Anne hesitated only a heartbeat, then ran forward. Mrs Bennet caught her gently, pressing warm kisses to both of the child’s cheeks with loud, smacking sounds that made Anne giggle. The little girl, usually so solemn and measured, leaned into the embrace without reservation, her small arms wrapping around Mrs Bennet’s neck.
“And what have you brought me this morning, my sweet?” Mrs Bennet asked, her eyes twinkling as she pulled back just enough to look at Anne.
Anne thrust Muffin forward with both hands, her expression solemn and proud. “I did not bring anything, just Muffin. But you are his grandmamma too, so you can hold him, if you promise to keep him safe.”
Mrs Bennet accepted the wooden horse with the gravity the moment deserved, turning it gently in her hands as though it were made of the finest porcelain instead of sturdy oak. “I thank you for your trust, little lady. I shall guard him with my life, I promise you.”
Anne beamed, then threw her arms around Mrs Bennet once more, the two of them tangled in a hug that spoke of a bond already forming, warm and effortless. Elizabeth watched them, her heart full, marvelling at how quickly thechild had claimed her new grandmother and how readily Mrs Bennet had opened her arms in return. “Now go with Alice to change into your beautiful gown, and come back so all the ladies of the house are together.”
Anne grinned and bustled out, while the rest of the Bennet sisters spilled into the room, forming a cheerful, colourful tide.
Lydia came first, quieter than she had once been but carrying herself with a new, tentative lightness. Kitty followed close behind, her eyes bright and steps almost skipping with carefree energy. Mary entered next, her posture straighter than Elizabeth remembered. And Jane came last of all, radiant in a gown of soft rose silk that made her look every inch the beauty she had always been.
All four wore the gowns Elizabeth had purchased for them in Lambton, sending rough measurements and instructions ahead so the seamstress could prepare them in advance. When the Bennet ladies had arrived at Pemberley three days earlier—escorted by Colonel Fitzwilliam in the grand Matlock carriage—the final alterations had been completed in the long gallery amid laughter, pins, and lengths of spare ribbon.
Mr Darcy and Elizabeth had requested everyone to come to Pemberley at once. The Colonel had come gladly, his jovial and honest presence a steady anchor for Jane; his parents, the Earl and Countess of Matlock, had sent their warmest blessings and regrets, prior engagements in town making the journey impossible.
Elizabeth’s gaze moved slowly over her sisters, drinking in the sight of them blooming.
Mary looked well, truly well. The Italian lessons she had thrown herself into with such fierce concentration had given her a new confidence; she carried herself with purpose, her eyes clearer, her smile less reserved. Kitty seemed carefree, and she took long walks with Anne through the park, sketched by the pond, and rode a gentle mare from the Pemberley stables. Lydia was showing unmistakable signs of recovery from the deep melancholy that had cloaked her for so long. She smiled more readily, spoke without constant apology, and had even teased Kitty about her riding habit. The shadows were not gone entirely, but they were lifting, day by day.
And Jane was a marvel.
At nine-and-twenty she still had the luminous beauty that had once made half of Hertfordshire fall in love with her. The rose gown suited her perfectly, the soft colour bringing a warm glow to her cheeks and light to her eyes. The attention of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who was courting her in earnest, with no games and no false charm, had allowed her to trust again. She no longer moved through rooms as though braced for disappointment. She moved as though she believed happiness might stay.
“You all look so beautiful.” Elizabeth’s voice caught slightly as she took them in. “I can scarcely believe you are all here.”